


Nails, Hair, Hips, Heels

by MangaFreak15



Series: SakuAtsu in love [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsu and Omi being thirsty for each other, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Mutual Thirsting, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Stand Alone, gratuitous amounts of thirst, that's it that's the fic, they're Horny with a capital H
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29601684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangaFreak15/pseuds/MangaFreak15
Summary: 4 times Atsumu and Kiyoomi thirsted over each other and 1 time they did something about it.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: SakuAtsu in love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169279
Comments: 7
Kudos: 208





	Nails, Hair, Hips, Heels

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the Todrick Hall song Nails, Hair, Hips, Heels
> 
> can't believe I wrote an actual thirst fic, what have I done

**i. nails (hands)**

_Atsumu_

Atsumu isn’t sure when he starts watching Sakusa so closely. It's probably when Bokuto and Hinata comment on Sakusa’s ‘freaky wrists’ and goes downhill from there.

He’s aware that Sakusa has hypermobile joints and that’s why he can put the nastiest spins on the balls that he spikes. Atsumu has cursed him out in his head a thousand times over during practice trying to receive them. But he doesn’t look at just Sakusa’s wrists, he looks at his hands, too. Long fingers and pale skin, the palm large enough to nearly swallow one side of the ball whole.

He starts watching those same hands and their perfectly rounded nails outside of practice, dexterous fingers massaging hand sanitizer gel into every corner of his skin, grasping the wipes he uses to clean everything he uses, the way his index fingers curl around the earloops of his face mask as he puts it on and takes it off with the ease of years of experience. He watches, and he wonders.

What would it feel like to have those same hands touch him? Sakusa avoids touch like he’ll die if it happens, but _what if_ he released those inhibitions long enough to do something, even if it’s something as small as tapping someone on the shoulder?

Atsumu wonders what it would feel like to have those hands and their unblemished nails on him, cupping his face, trailing over his chest and stomach, gripping his thighs like a man possessed, opening him up—

He pauses, thinking. Sakusa has double-jointed wrists. Does that… does that mean that he can… a flush burns in his cheeks imagining the twist of a flexible wrist, fingers reaching deeper, the ease of which he might be able to find a certain spot inside him. Or how those fingers would feel wrapped around his dick, grip loose enough to slide up and down, how his thumb would come up and smear beads of pre-cum from the tip as he bends his wrist further than the average human can.

Atsumu isn’t surprised when he palms himself through his gym shorts and finds himself half-hard from the fantasies. He quickly glances around to make sure nobody’s looking at him, then tries to run for the showers without seeming too desperate. He catches Sakusa’s eye on the way out, one eyebrow raised at him. His eyes drop involuntarily to Sakusa’s hands, which are gripping his water bottle tightly.

His cock nearly jumps to full-mast as the image of Sakusa gripping _something else_ instead of that water bottle flashes through his mind. Atsumu hastens to the showers where he can (hopefully) beat off in peace.

_Kiyoomi_

Miya Atsumu is a loud, rude, arrogant, infuriating asshole both on the court and off of it, but he has his moments where he shows a surprisingly quiet and dedicated side of himself. One of those moments is after he showers. Kiyoomi is usually the first one in and out of the showers after practice or a game, but on occasion Miya will finish showering before him and Kiyoomi will come out and see him sitting on one of the benches meticulously filing his nails, tongue peeking out in concentration.

The setter’s hands are inarguably the most important part of him; uneven nails can make or break a toss. Kiyoomi has seen those hands handle countless numbers of volleyballs, little calluses building up on his palms from hitting the ball over and over again while practicing his serves, small bumps on the tips of his fingers that have formed from years of setting.

Those hands have also exchanged high-fives, fist bumps, and back slaps with every other teammate on their Division 1 team except for Kiyoomi (because germs and Kiyoomi don’t mix). He doesn’t mind it, touch to him is like a red-hot iron brand searing its mark onto his skin.

But still, he watches. He’s seen everyone on the team accommodate his needs as easy as breathing, but Miya sometimes takes it a step further and actually goes out of his way to make _Kiyoomi’s_ life easier. It’s in the way that he washes his hands for exactly twenty seconds with a generous helping of antibacterial soap, drying his hands with a handkerchief and folding it to keep the damp part inside. It’s in the way that he’ll ask for an extra sanitizing wipe so that he can help Kiyoomi clean up a space before they occupy it. It’s in the way that he buys individually-wrapped food after practice and gives it to him without mentioning how he knows that Kiyoomi is hungry.

Before long, Kiyoomi begins having _other_ thoughts of the setter. Thinks of clean hands man-handling him on the bed, how it would feel to have those rough calluses running over his cock, short nails digging little crescents into the skin as he holds on to him.

He tries not to think of it during practice when all and sundry (but especially Miya) would be able to see his erection through his shorts and know that he’s as much of a pervert as anyone else. He’s a twenty-two year old athlete with a healthy libido, but he also knows that there’s a time and place for everything, and volleyball practice is definitely not the time and place to be thinking of Miya Atsumu’s hands all over him.

But when he’s safely locked inside of his own apartment, he’ll bite into his pillow and fist himself, imagining those callused hands stroking him, squeezing his ass, parting his thighs, and fingering him until he comes. And the next day, he won’t breathe a word, just snap at Miya to give him a better toss, and he doesn’t allow himself to linger on Miya’s hands until he goes home again.

* * *

**ii. hair (face)**

_Atsumu_

All of the online and magazine polls have agreed that Sakusa has the prettiest face amongst all of the MSBY Black Jackals members. Atsumu argues against it for the sake of arguing (and because he hates losing), but deep down, he agrees with them. Because Sakusa is fuckin’ _hot._ He’s paler than the average athlete, his light skin a delightful contrast with inky curls of hair and dark, dark gray eyes that have a default of _disdainful._ Not to mention his beauty marks, two adorable little moles lined up neatly just above his right eyebrow like he’s got a colon permanently marked on his face, combined with high cheekbones like he’s descended from royalty or some shit, and a jawline so sharp you could cut a man with it.

Today, though, there is another problem.

Atsumu has seen Sakusa with sweat-soaked hair plastered to his head, wild curls damp with water straight out of the shower, and tousled waves falling over his eyes when he walks in for morning practice. But this—this—whatever _this_ is, it’s driving Atsumu to distraction and it’s not _fair._

Sakusa’s hair has been getting longer recently, and more than once he’s quietly complained about his hair getting in the way during practice. It seems that he’s finally done something about it. Atsumu alternates between cursing his existence and thanking every single deity out there that he doesn’t believe in that his life has come to this truly blessed point.

He pretends to be busy going through his bag as he watches the spiker out of the corner of his eye, attention fixed on the tiny ponytail flush with the nape of Sakusa’s exposed neck. The curly bangs that usually hang over his left eye have been clipped back with a small yellow dahlia hair clip. Both changes expose more of his face to the public, bringing attention to his ears (Atsumu had nearly dropped a volleyball on his own foot when he saw that Sakusa even had a mole on the tip of his right ear), highlighting his elegant facial structure, and most importantly, showing off the long, smooth, creamy expanse of his neck, an area that Atsumu just itches to mark up until the world knows exactly who Sakusa Kiyoomi belongs to. He wants to set his teeth against his pulse, suck little bruises into pale skin like blooming flowers, listen to the breathy little whines and moans that Sakusa would give him. He wants to angle his pretty face up and kiss those cupid’s bow lips until they are swollen and bitten red, to take his tongue and play with it and lick into his mouth until the heat has swallowed them both.

And when they’re fucking on the bed, Atsumu will grab a handful of those delicious black curls and yank on them because Sakusa probably has a hair-pulling kink and he’ll—

He zips up his bag more harshly than necessary, nearly tearing the zipper off as he tries to wrench his attention away from Sakusa and his stupidly pretty face and his stupidly adorable little ponytail curling up behind his stupidly long and totally kissable neck.

Right, he’s at volleyball practice right now. It’s way too earlier to try to go to the showers to jerk off, so he’s got to focus his energy on other things in the meantime.

He steals heated glances at Sakusa all through practice, pretending to look the other way whenever Sakusa glances back.

_Kiyoomi_

Kiyoomi remembers that his very first impression of Miya way back when they were still wee first years in high school was a terrible one: with piss-colored hair, a cocky smirk, bratty attitude and all. It was hate at first sight.

But, he had had to reluctantly give him props for his volleyball skills. Miya hadn’t been crowned the best high school setter in their second year for nothing, much as he didn’t want to admit it.

Four years passed after high school with Miya off with the pros while Kiyoomi earned a degree in Sports Science. And on the day that he stands inside the gym housing the MSBY Black Jackals home court and sees that familiar cocksure grin, he can say with utter conviction that while Miya’s physical features have gained a bit of adult maturity, his personality is still equatable to a dumpster fire. At least his hair isn’t that horrendous shade of ochre-yellow anymore; now it’s a softer yellow, more natural. More pleasing to look at.

And his face. God, his _face._ When he isn’t wearing arrogance like a second skin, Kiyoomi supposes Miya can be considered conventionally attractive. He’s not noble or graceful in any way except for when he’s setting on the court, but he’s got an odd sort of rugged, country-boy charm to him. The twang of his accent, his crude sense of humor, the golden glow of his skin, all of them are part of the man named Miya Atsumu.

Considering how often he bleaches his hair, Kiyoomi expects Miya’s hair to have a brittle, coarse, wiry texture to it. But day after day of watching Miya come and go from the showers, then strutting into practice the next day with a head full of the softest, shiniest, silkiest looking hair before it inevitably gets sweat-soaked and dirty, Kiyoomi fears that he may have made a miscalculation.

He wants to run his fingers through that hair. He wants to slide his hands over Miya’s stupid face, with his thick eyebrows and sloping jaw, taupe eyes half-lidded and promising a challenge. More than once, Kiyoomi has found his gaze lingering on Miya’s mouth for longer than he should, watching the shape and curve of his lips around the words he speaks. What would it be like to lean forward and close the few feet of distance between them, to seal his mouth shut with a kiss?

One night the team is out drinking at a bar and Kiyoomi watches as Miya’s lips wrap around the straw of some fruity little concoction he doesn’t remember the name of, and finds himself _jealous._ Not because he wants the drink, but because of the straw. A goddamn straw, a single-use plastic that will be one and done when the drink is finished. Kiyoomi thinks furiously about how Miya’s mouth definitely has better uses than talking and sipping periodically at his drink. They’re crowded in a booth and everyone’s laps are hidden beneath the table, but even still Kiyoomi tries not to get himself too worked up in public. When Barnes points out the flush on his cheeks as he stares at Miya laughing along and even participating in the chaotic sunshine energy antics of Bokuto and Hinata, Kiyoomi blames the alcohol.

But how can anyone stay calm watching Miya’s lips stretch out around a plastic straw, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks up the cocktail with a pleased slurp? Kiyoomi’s thoughts immediately drift in the wrong direction and he can’t help but squirm a little imagining Miya’s hot little mouth wrapped around his dick instead. Pink tongue flashing out, giving little kitten licks to the blushy head, the warm wet heat of his mouth as Miya swallows him down until Kiyoomi’s cock bumps the back of his throat, looking up at him through thick eyelashes, daring him to try and hold out.

He catches Miya trailing off mid-sentence to give him a sultry look. Kiyoomi has a very brief, naughty thought of what it would be like if Miya disappeared under the table and sucked him off right then and there in the bar, with their tipsy teammates none the wiser. He feels his cock twitch at the image, but logic and mysophobia win out this time.

Instead, he quirks an eyebrow back, as if to say _what are you looking at?_

Miya’s eyes darken, and he licks his lips.

_You,_ he replies, then downs the rest of his drink.

* * *

**iii. hips (ass)**

_Atsumu_

Atsumu knows he’s got an amazing backside. Hell, everyone on the team, or really, every professional volleyball player he knows has a killer ass (yes, he’s not ashamed to say that he’s certainly been looking). But watching Sakusa when he’s in the front row and Atsumu’s in the back? _That_ is pure gold. The way his hips flex as he moves to dig a ball, the muscles of his glorious backside tensing, Atsumu feels like he’s being teased everytime Sakusa unknowingly presents himself in Atsumu’s direction with those tight gym shorts stretched over paradise—

He nearly fumbles a receive when he has to shake himself out of his thoughts, because right, they’re playing a match against the Tachibana Red Falcons and now is not the time to be thinking about Sakusa’s ass and how much he’d like to tap that.

Atsumu’s up to serve and he looks across the court and locks eyes with his former Inarizaki teammate, Aran. He smirks. Aran grins back in challenge.

Just before he tosses the ball up, he sees Sakusa turn around just the tiniest bit. _Don’t miss this one,_ his eyes say.

Atsumu doesn’t. His super hybrid serve flies over the heads of the front row and smashes down gloriously right on the line, earning them their match point.

They manage to eke out a win over the other team, ending with a 3-2 score. Riding the high of victory, Atsumu doesn’t think too much when he heads to the showers to change out of his sweaty uniform. There’s already a shower running, which he knows must be Sakusa because the man is always the first one to get clean. Atsumu hops into his own stall right next door, trying (and failing) not to think about Sakusa completely naked on the other side.

He swipes his hand down his stomach, imagining the sharp V of Sakusa’s hip bones, where the happy trail of dark curls leads to. He thinks about grasping a handful of firm flesh in each hand and kneading it, fingers stroking down the length of his thighs, feeling the muscles jump beneath pale, mole-dotted skin. If Sakusa’s wrists are super flexible, what about the rest of his joints? If Atsumu had him on a bed (or a couch, or the floor, or in the shower, he’s not picky, really), would he be able to bend that flexible body in half as they’re fucking? He wraps a palm around his half-hard dick, biting his lip to stop himself from moaning when the subject of his fantasies is literally in the stall right next to him. He pictures Sakusa staring at him with hooded eyes, both hands grasping his thighs and holding them open impossibly wide, inviting him in. How his hips and ass would feel gyrating on top of Atsumu, arousals pressed together, how Sakusa would throw his head back as Atsumu laves at the perky nipples on full display, how he would grab those hips while Sakusa bounces himself on his cock so that he can thrust upwards at the same time and punch a startled moan out of the notoriously silent spiker—

Atsumu doesn't think he’s quite successful enough in keeping a tiny little whimper from escaping from his mouth as he comes hard into his own hand. After a terrifyingly silent moment, he sticks his head under the shower spray, praying that nobody had heard him. That’s when he realizes that the sound of the shower next to him has already stopped. Which means Sakusa is already done and may possibly have already gone back to the changing room to put his clean clothes on, which means that he _probably_ didn’t hear Atsumu whispering out his name as he hit his orgasm, painting the white shower tiles with thick stripes of cum.

Probably.

_Or maybe not,_ he laments as he steps into the changing room with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Because the first thing he sees is that Sakusa is still in only his towel, and it hangs so low on his skinny hips that it may as well be falling off. Atsumu can actually see the constellations of moles sprinkled gratuitously across his back and shoulders, and how there’s a single large one right at the end of his spine, sitting prettily right above the swell of his ass. Atsumu wants to go over to him and rip the towel off so that he can see if there are any moles dotting the skin of his buttcheeks. If there are, he would certainly like to map them out. Preferably with his tongue.

Then Sakusa turns around, a smirk on his face like he knows exactly what Atsumu has been staring at for the past three minutes. His face is shiny with moisturizer—oh, he must have been in the middle of his post-game skincare routine—and Atsumu flushes red when he realizes that the lotion makes Sakusa’s skin _glow._

“See something you like, Miya?” he says, trailing one hand teasingly over his towel. This fuckin’ prick.

Well, two can play at that game. Atsumu grins and steps closer, watching Sakusa’s pupils dilate just the slightest bit from the proximity. “Yeah,” he agrees. Then he swings out a hand and boldly smacks Sakusa on the ass, the sound echoing through the empty changing room like a gunshot. Sakusa jumps violently, grabbing ahold of his towel to keep it from dropping to the floor (what a shame), the smug look on his face replaced with a bright red blush and an expression of utter shock.

Atsumu just winks at him and saunters away whistling.

_Kiyoomi_

Kiyoomi is aware that Miya has a body like a Greek Adonis. With his smooth golden skin, artfully messy hair, abs for days, and thighs that could choke a man, it’s little wonder that he has millions of fangirls drooling over him on a daily basis. This is made all the more apparent when Miya accepts a modeling gig a few months after they defeated the Schweiden Adlers. When the magazine comes out with all of Miya’s photoshoots on public display, he pretty much breaks the collective internet.

Needless to say, he breaks his teammates, too. Especially Kiyoomi, though he takes great pains to hide it. Even Meian and Barnes are affected, though not as much as the rest of them because both players are married with kids. Miya preens as he’s lavished with wolf whistles and praise as the team looks back and forth from the magazine to the setter, blushes on everyone’s faces.

The cover of the magazine spread seems relatively innocent at first: Miya is dressed in a form-fitting gray dri-fit tee and gym shorts that are _clearly_ a size too small given how the fabric clings to his narrow hips and none-too-subtly gives definition to that tight ass as he crouches low to the floor, one long leg extended outward as if he’s about to run a 50-meter dash.

Kiyoomi can’t say the same for the first two pages of the magazine, which is definitely the photoshoot’s crowning glory. It’s what broke the internet. Kiyoomi finds himself unable to move on from the two-page spread, his eyes drinking in every inch of the body on display with a hunger that he hadn’t known that he possessed, ignoring Bokuto and Hinata’s screaming in the background about how sexy the magazine is.

Miya lounges in a maroon velvet armchair, completely naked except for a skintight pair of charcoal-gray booty shorts with white accents that are cinched tight around his waist. He’s leaning one arm on the armrest, his thick bicep bulging slightly from the weight that he’s putting on it, his head tilted down to give the impression that he’s looking at the camera through long brown eyelashes, the tip of his tongue peeking out from behind pouty lips that have been touched up with coral lipstick. Black kohl makes his eyes pop, smoky-red eyeliner brushed over his eyelids and bringing some attention to his come-hither look. His hair has been purposefully disheveled so it gives off that _just got laid_ vibe. His defined pectorals and prominent washboard abs glisten underneath the warm studio lights, faintly shining as if there’s oil rubbed all over the tanned skin. One muscular leg is stretched away from his body, showing off the impressive bulge straining against the silky fabric of the booty shorts, Miya’s other hand coming up and cupping it tenderly. His thumb dips below the waistband, stretching it the slightest bit away from his hip. The entire photo screams _you know you want me_ and _you can look, but you can’t touch._

Kiyoomi kind of wants to die when he feels himself straight up pop a boner in front of his teammates, even though everyone else is too preoccupied with the magazine to pay attention to his sudden state of horniness.

He takes a deep breath through his nose and forcefully wills his erection away, promising himself that he’ll buy his own copy of the magazine and bring it home so he can jack off in private.

He ends up buying two copies. One that he squirrels away on his bookshelf, to be kept pristine and clean. The other one he takes into the bedroom with him so he can furiously stroke himself while gazing down at Miya’s smug face, imagining himself tearing those damn booty shorts off so he can bite at those jutting hipbones and maybe deepthroat that bulge until Miya is a wrecked mess beneath him, pretty sepia eyes blinking tears away as Kiyoomi brings him to his peak. His orgasm hits him like a trainwreck and he ends up coming all over that stupid photo spread, painting stripes of pearly fluid over the two-dimensional face of his crush. Kiyoomi thinks it would look even better in person, even if the thought of spewing his bodily fluids all over another person’s face makes him vaguely disgusted. Miya would probably enjoy it, cum dripping from his eyelashes, pink tongue swiping out to lick Kiyoomi’s seed off his lips.

Kiyoomi has to retreat to his personal shower, moaning to himself as he beats off a second time, but this time to the fantasy of shoving Miya against the wall of his shower and fucking him just like that, Miya’s voice bouncing off the clean tiles as Kiyoomi grips his hips and drives himself into that tight ass again and again until they both come.

After he changes out his sheets, Kiyoomi lays on his bed with one arm draped over his eyes, and wonders if perhaps these fantasies are getting a bit out of hand.

Stupid Miya and his sexy photoshoots.

* * *

**iv. heels (legs)**

_Atsumu_

In high school, Sakusa was named one of Japan’s top three aces in his second year. In college, he was named the MVP. Despite only playing at the collegiate level for four years, Sakusa never once slacked on his training, and it shows in his powerful jumps and spikes, as well as his solid receiving. Atsumu has nearly brained himself during practice more than once because he’d gotten too distracted watching Sakusa’s legs, the way the muscles of his calves bulge during his jumps, the way his shorts ride up on toned thighs, the way his legs curl up in a perfect arch as he sends the ball flying to the other side of the court.

Probably the most surprising thing about Sakusa’s legs though, is the fact that they are completely smooth. Hairless. Atsumu thinks it would be akin to touching silk if he was allowed to touch them.

Atsumu knows he’s got hairy legs. He can’t grow a beard for shit, but an entire inch of leg hair can sprout up overnight, which he has complained about endlessly to Osamu. His twin brother just laughs at him, even though they’re twins and therefore have the exact same problem. “I ain’t as vain as ya, bitch,” says the hellspawn. “Besides, Rin likes my legs. Don’tcha, babe?” And Atsumu will yell at his brother and his boyfriend for being disgusting when they proceed to makeout right in front of him.

Anyways, back to the point. Sakusa’s legs. Which are long and pale and smooth as a woman’s, cords of powerful, lean muscle wrapped up in velvety skin. Atsumu wants to run his hands over those sinful calves and worship his feet, as weird and gross as that sounds. But Sakusa is almost always clean, so it’s not like Atsumu has to worry about body odor when it comes down to imagining himself kneeling at Sakusa’s feet and kissing his toes, mouthing his way up to Sakusa’s strong thighs.

During their stretches, usually Atsumu is paired up with Sakusa, so he gets an eyeful of how limber Sakusa can get pretty much every day. The spiker is so flexible that he can lay his torso almost parallel to the floor when they’re stretching their calf and hip muscles, especially with Atsumu pushing down on his back to help him. Atsumu itches to drape himself over Sakusa’s back, to slot his crotch right up against Sakusa’s ass and lay his hands over the other’s in a mockery of an embrace.

He finds himself just staring at Sakusa’s legs instead, wishing that there would come a day when he’ll find them wrapped snugly around his waist while they have sex, so that he can hold them and kiss them and leave little marks scattered over the soft, sweet flesh of Sakusa’s lovely thighs, that way everyone will know that this beautiful, beautiful man is taken by none other than Miya Atsumu himself.

Atsumu lets up when Sakusa starts to rise back up, the stretch finished. “Your turn,” the spiker says, turning around so that Atsumu can start stretching, with Sakusa pushing down on his back this time.

The setter is hyper aware of Sakusa’s hands on him, like two hot irons burning into his skin. _Touch me,_ he thinks fervently, bending forward as far as he can. Sakusa doesn’t get his telepathic message of course, but Atsumu also doesn’t think he’s imagining things when Sakusa’s hands linger on him a little longer than they normally do.

_Kiyoomi_

Kiyoomi has never been particularly active on social media. He doesn’t see much appeal to it, especially with the sheer amount of thirst the internet has for his teammate (particularly after that incident with the sexy magazine). When he does finally deign to check his twitter account, there’s one particular comment, with several variations, that catches his eye.

That comment is: _I want to be crushed by Miya Atsumu’s thighs._

Kiyoomi is very aware that Miya’s thighs are god-tier level. They are thick, meaty, and strong enough to shatter a watermelon by themselves. He’s seen the way they flex on the court, when Miya bends and twists and dives for the ball with a grace that seems to leave him once he’s off the court. Kiyoomi thinks about how they would feel wrapped around his hips instead, or, god forbid, his head while he opens Miya up with his tongue. Suddenly, the comment makes much more sense when he thinks about it. Then he finds himself thinking about it too much.

He sneaks glimpses of Miya’s thighs more often, fingers itching to grab them and squeeze the toned flesh. Kiyoomi doesn’t _do_ touch, but apparently when it comes to Miya Atsumu, he loses all sense of rational thought and his previous inhibitions fly right out of the proverbial window. Especially when Miya emerges from the showers, dripping water all over the floor, only a towel hiding his modesty from view. Kiyoomi pretends to be engrossed in something else, but he can’t help watching the tiny droplets of water sliding down sinuous thighs, leaving a gleaming trail on the setter’s golden skin. His calves are equally sinful, lean with hard muscle that came about as a result of all of his serving practice.

Kiyoomi still thinks about that magazine sometimes, except that now he also looks at the flex of Miya’s legs in the various photos and not just how big he’s packing in the downstairs department. Miya’s legs in red leather riding pants. Miya’s legs in black skinny jeans. Miya’s legs in mesh thigh-high stockings. Miya’s legs in swim trunks. Miya’s legs in _anything,_ especially tight pants that don’t quite fit the setter’s thighs, causing them to strain obscenely against the seams.

The real kicker is the picture at the end of the magazine though: Miya Atsumu in _heels._ Kiyoomi hadn’t thought it possible to associate the loud, beefy, masculine setter with something so traditionally feminine, and yet… and yet—

Kiyoomi thinks about taking Miya’s foot in hand and sliding the pitch-black heels off with care, massaging the flesh gently, Miya laughing at the ticklish feeling. How he’ll stop laughing and watch Kiyoomi with hungry eyes as the spiker traces up the line of his legs upwards. How Kiyoomi wants to bury his head between his legs and breathe in deep, the smell of Miya’s lavender-scented soap mixed with his earthy natural musk filling his lungs.

He knows that Miya’s not particularly fond of his leg hair problem, as he often spends a longer time in the showers whenever he has to shave it all off. Miya is extremely vain, so it seems to gall him whenever he doesn’t look pretty and perfect. Kiyoomi doesn’t think he minds either way, but it is true that the sight of Miya stepping out with freshly shaved legs ignites a pit of fire in his belly. Seeing that gleaming skin free of blemishes except a few tiny scars from hitting the floor in practice too many times, watching as Miya seats himself on one of the benches in order to apply moisturizing lotion to his legs (after he wipes the bench off, something that he seems to have unconsciously picked up from Kiyoomi), it makes the spiker want to run his hands over those thighs, and feel exactly how smooth his skin is without all the hair in the way.

Miya looks up and they lock eyes. He doesn’t pause rubbing the lotion into his legs, but if he deliberately slows the pace down and kneads his own flesh more sensually, then Kiyoomi makes no comment on it.

_You want me?_ Miya’s eyes ask.

_I do want you,_ Kiyoomi says, sizing him up.

Neither of them make a move then, but Kiyoomi thinks it won’t be long till something gives way if the heated smolder of Miya’s eyes are any indication of the sexual tension between them.

* * *

**v. so make it rain on me, and I might let you see (what you gonna let them see?)**

_Atsumu & Kiyoomi _

Toss.

“Omi-kun!”

Slap.

_Bam!_

Kiyoomi lands back on his feet, breathing heavily after the last spike ricochets off of the libero’s arms and out of bounds. For a long moment, nobody moves.

Then the referee blows the whistle, sealing their fate.

**MSBY Black Jackals VS. EJP Raijin — 3-2**

“‘SHAAAAAAA!” Bokuto screams, running at Hinata. They chest bump and slap each other on the back, yelling and laughing and crying all at once.

Meian and Inunaki exchange high-fives, both of them going over to the Bokuto-Hinata pair and pulling them both into a group hug.

Atsumu looks across the court at Suna, who collapsed after the referee blew his whistle. He’s wearing a congratulatory smile, looking unbothered that his team just lost. At the same time, Kiyoomi watches Komori, who lets himself fall flat on his back, a tired grin on his face. “Man, all these years picking up your gross spikes and you still got one off of me,” he chuckles, lifting a hand to mop the sweat from his brow. “You’ve come a long way, Kiyoomi.”

Kiyoomi nods.

Both teams line up to shake hands and thank the other for the game. The stadium echoes with the sounds of thunderous applause and cheering for both teams.

As Kiyoomi walks back to the changing room, intent on getting the first shower, a hand snags him by the elbow. He doesn’t turn around, knowing exactly who is touching him right now because he isn’t feeling the urge to immediately jump away.

“Hey,” Atsumu says, letting go of Kiyoomi once he has the spiker’s attention. His eyes glint savagely beneath the stadium lights, satisfaction written all over his face. But Kiyoomi can see a burning desire hidden underneath. “Nice kill, Omi-Omi.”

“Get to the point, Miya.” Kiyoomi starts walking again.

Atsumu falls into step beside him, looking far too smug. “Ya really gonna make me say it, Omi-kun? I know ya’ve been watchin’ me a lot lately.”

“As if you haven’t been watching me back,” Kiyoomi scoffs.

Atsumu laughs, lacing both hands behind his sweat-soaked hair. “That’s fair. So, whatcha gonna do ‘bout it?” he asks, grinning like a cat that’s about to get the canary.

“Nothing.” Kiyoomi almost laughs out loud at the incredulous expression that Atsumu sends him in return. He adds, “At least, not until we both take a shower. You reek and I don’t want to be standing in my own sweat longer than I have to.”

“Why didn’tcha start with that then,” Atsumu grumbles, shoulders slumping. “I really thought ya were gonna blueball me there.”

“If anything, you blueballed yourself thinking that.”

“Hey!”

Before they enter the showers, they give each other another heated glance. “Ya really want this, Omi-kun?” Atsumu says, hushed, eyes searching. “I’m not gonna force ya if ya don’t really want this with me.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes so hard he thought they might fall out of his head. “Do you really think that I’d be talking to you about this if I didn’t want it?” he says in a tone so dry, it puts deserts to shame. “Did that game knock your last remaining brain cell out of your skull?”

“I-I was just makin’ sure!” Atsumu squawks, outraged.

Kiyoomi sighs. He reaches out and, after checking that nobody was around to see what he was about to do, grinds the heel of his palm against Atsumu’s groin. The setter gasps, doubling over. Kiyoomi pulls away with a smirk, “Does that answer the question for you?”

Atsumu glares up at him. “Jerk,” he mutters. “Ya better not back out on me after this, Omi!” He stomps away to go take his shower. Kiyoomi grabs his towel and sets out to snag a clean stall.

They finish their showers at the same time. Meian looks up as they both emerge, toweling their hair dry. “Oh, there you are. We’re going to have a team night out at our usual bar, do you want to come?” he asks.

They look at each other, then back at their captain. “Maybe next time, Meian-san,” Atsumu says. “I’ve got some… business ta attend ta tonight.”

“I’m too tired to go out drinking today,” Kiyoomi replies, rubbing at his eyes for show. It’s not a lie, per se, because he _is_ tired, but he’s got enough energy to participate in a certain bedroom activity that Meian doesn’t need to know about.

Meian doesn’t look like he believes them, but he just smiles and claps them both on the shoulder. “I see! Well, rest up, Sakusa, we need you in top shape for the rest of the season! And Miya, don’t forget to use protection! I don’t want to hear about any scandals tomorrow morning.”

Kiyoomi muffles a snort into his towel as Atsumu sputters at their captain, “Whaddya take me fer, a whore?!”

“You are. An attention whore, that is,” Meian chortles, turning around and waving them off cheerily as Atsumu turns red and yells at him behind his back.

Kiyoomi coughs out another laugh as Atsumu looks at him, embarrassed. “He’s definitely on to us. So, how are we going to do this, Miya?”

“Your place,” Atsumu says immediately, straightening up. A grimace crosses his face as he continues, “Rin’s stayin’ at mine and Samu’s apartment tonight.”

Ah. Of course.

“My place is probably cleaner than yours, anyway,” Kiyoomi says casually, opening up his locker to grab his clean clothes. Atsumu gasps, affronted.

“Hey! I’ll have ya know that I’ve been cleanin’ every day!”

They get dressed in silence, both tossing each other glances as they throw their clothes on, not bothering to make them look presentable because the clothes will come right back off as soon as they get to Kiyoomi’s apartment anyway.

“Ready?” Atsumu asks, fox-kill grin in place.

“Did you even need to ask?” Kiyoomi counters, sweeping his eyes over Atsumu’s clothed form.

* * *

Truthfully, neither of them remember the trip back to the apartment. What they _do_ remember, however, is that as soon as the front door swings shut and locks, Atsumu is slamming Kiyoomi against the nearest wall and kissing the daylights out of him. They grind against each other, the kisses turning wet, open-mouthed. Atsumu fists the front of Kiyoomi’s shirt in order to pull him in deeper, wedging one thick thigh between the spiker’s legs to nudge against the rapidly-growing bulge in his pants. Kiyoomi drops his bag and humps Atsumu’s leg shamelessly, groaning at the pleasure that rushes through him.

“Wait, Miya,” he gasps, as Atsumu breaks their kiss and starts mouthing at his throat. _“Ah—_ I said, wait!”

Atsumu pulls off of him, eyes burning with feverish intensity. “What?” he rasps. “Yer not bailin’ on me now, are ya?”

“It’s my apartment, where would I go?” Kiyoomi retorts, shaking his head to dislodge the cobwebs. “No, I meant, we should wash our hands first.”

Atsumu blinks. “Oh, is that all? Well, lead the way then!”

Kiyoomi goes to the bathroom, where he washes his hands first. He watches Atsumu too to make sure his partner doesn’t try to cut corners so that he’ll get laid faster. Atsumu doesn’t, knowing how particular Kiyoomi is on personal hygiene.

After he dries his hands, he turns around and gives Kiyoomi a beatific smile. “Well then, where were we?”

They lunge for each other at the same time, Kiyoomi’s hands sweeping out to grab handfuls of Atsumu’s ass and squeezing. The setter gasps, back arching, pushing their crotches together. He whines loudly. Kiyoomi huffs into his neck, steering them both in the direction of the bedroom.

“Omi,” he whimpers, the sound going straight to Kiyoomi’s dick. He sets his teeth to Kiyoomi’s ear and whispers, _“Hurry.”_

Kiyoomi nearly slams the door open in his haste to get inside. He throws Atsumu on to the bed, watching him bounce on the sheets before he’s on to him again. They kiss furiously, grinding, Atsumu grabbing a fistful of Kiyoomi’s hair and tugging on it hard, earning a strangled cry and a moan from the spiker.

“Off,” he growls, pushing Kiyoomi back so that he can rip off his shirt. Kiyoomi shucks off his pants, sparing a second to stroke Atsumu’s dick through his jeans. Atsumu lets out a breathy moan, his movements stuttering, before he resumes his mission of getting rid of his clothes as fast as possible.

When they’re both fully naked, they sit back and take each other in, completely, for the first time. “Omi-kun, yer so beautiful, I’m so lucky,” Atsumu babbles, reaching out to trace the moles peppering the spiker’s pale skin. “Ya don’t know how long I’ve been waitin’ fer this—”

“Stop talking,” Kiyoomi says, his pupils dilating until they’re practically swallowing his irises, “if you want to fuck me.” He’s achingly hard and needy, but he’s also tired from the game and wants to be pampered tonight.

Atsumu obeys without question, grabbing his shoulder and rolling them over so that he’s on top. Then they’re kissing again. Atsumu breaks off so that he can suck on Kiyoomi’s neck, leaving purple marks behind as a reminder of who Kiyoomi now belongs to (although he’s careful to place them below the collar). Kiyoomi whimpers beneath him, wriggling his hips as he attempts to get some much needed friction for his hard cock.

“Lube,” Atsumu demands, loosely grasping Kiyoomi’s dick in one hand. The spiker gestures at the drawer of the bedside table. Atsumu yanks it open and pulls out a bottle and a foil condom packet, which he drops on top of the sheets. He parts Kiyoomi’s thighs, darting his tongue out to lick a hot stripe from the scrotum up the length of his partner’s cock. Kiyoomi claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the scream that tries to claw its way out of his throat, his thighs shaking with pleasure as Atsumu does it again, but more slowly, taking his balls into mouth one at a time and sucking on them gently.

“M-Mi—Atsumu,” he moans, letting his knees fall open even more. “Again, do that a-again.”

“Shit,” Atsumu pants, licking at the blushing head, a drop of salty precum falling on his tongue. “Shit, yer so hot, Omi, ‘m losin’ my mind—”

“Hurry up,” Kiyoomi says, setting one hand on Atsumu’s head and fisting the short blond strands.

“Impatient, are we?” Atsumu smirks, before he swallows Kiyoomi’s cock in one fell swoop.

A high-pitched sound tears out of Kiyoomi’s throat as his dick is enveloped in the wet heat of Atsumu’s mouth, hips jerking. Atsumu almost chokes, but he holds onto the spiker’s hip bones so that it doesn’t happen again. He pulls off to give little kitten licks to the head, then he alternates between licking and swallowing him down, grinding his own erection into the sheets while he listens to Kiyoomi’s cries. The spiker kicks his leg out as Atsumu very lightly scrapes the edge of his teeth over the top.

“Atsu—Atsumu, I’m, I’m gonna—” Kiyoomi croaks, fingers scrabbling against the sheets.

Atsumu sits back instead of finishing him off, grinning as Kiyoomi gives him a lethal glare. “Hey now, wouldn’t want this ta be over so soon, wouldja?” he taunts, shimmying down the length of Kiyoomi’s body so he can press butterfly kisses against the spiker’s calves. He hops off the bed. “Got any mouthwash I can use? I doubt ya’ll let me kiss ya after I just sucked yer dick, right?”

Kiyoomi sighs, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “It’s in the bathroom.”

“Gotcha. I’ll be right back!” Atsumu saunters off, stark naked, his erection slapping against his stomach as he walks.

Well, at least Kiyoomi can catch his breath, he supposes. The heat of his impending orgasm still simmers beneath his skin, but it’s muted now that Atsumu’s off rinsing out his mouth rather than giving him a blowjob.

Atsumu comes back in a couple of minutes, his breath now minty-fresh. Kiyoomi allows him to kiss him again, grateful that Atsumu’s still so mindful of him even in the heat of the moment. They kiss softly, no longer as frantic as before. Atsumu scrapes his nails across Kiyoomi’s scalp, swallowing the little hums of happiness that Kiyoomi lets out.

But soon, they pick up the pace again. Atsumu uncaps the bottle and drops lubricant on his fingers, rubbing them together to warm them up. Kiyoomi reaches back to grab a pillow, which he shoves underneath his hips so that he won’t be at risk of potentially dislocating anything while they’re fucking, because that would be just plain embarrassing.

“Ready?” Atsumu whispers against his kiss-bitten lips, teasing at Kiyoomi’s hole. It flutters as he prods around it, not pushing in quite yet.

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says impatiently, wiggling his hips. “I’d like to get fucked sometime this year, you know.”

Atsumu grins. “That a challenge I hear, Omi?” And without warning, he shoves a single finger in knuckle deep, snickering as Kiyoomi yelps and bites down on his lip. He moves the finger in and out, pawing at Kiyoomi’s slick insides. Then, when he feels Kiyoomi relaxing, he adds a second finger.

Kiyoomi begins to rock against Atsumu’s fingers as soon as the initial sharp burn subsides, frustrated when he can’t quite get them to hit the one spot inside of him. “Miya, hurry up,” he hisses, glaring at the setter through the stray strands of curly hair that have fallen into his eyes.

“What, not gonna call me Atsumu anymore when I have my fingers in yer ass?” Atsumu frowns, purposefully slowing down to a snail’s pace.

Kiyoomi tries to fuck himself on the fingers, but is largely unsuccessful because Atsumu refuses to move any faster.

“Oh, for the love of—” Kiyoomi raises one leg and knees Atsumu in the stomach. The setter squeals as he’s abruptly dislodged from his spot between Kiyoomi’s legs and pushed onto his back. Kiyoomi climbs on top of him instead, stealing the bottle of lubricant so that he can slick up his fingers and open himself up. He’s done waiting.

Atsumu just laughs at him, “Wow, someone’s impatient today.”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi grunts, sliding three fingers into his ass, wincing at the burn of the stretch. “I’m tired and needed to get fucked yesterday.”

“I didn’t wanna hurt ya, Omi-Omi! I mean, I know we got the next three days off, but still—”

Kiyoomi slaps his free hand over Atsumu’s mouth and leans forward. “Stop. Talking,” he says, trying to angle his fingers to get as deep into himself as possible.

“Kinky,” is Atsumu’s muffled response.

Kiyoomi takes his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets (they’ll change them later anyways). He rips open the foil packet and rolls the condom onto Atsumu’s hard cock, purposefully giving it a few strokes to feel it twitch happily in his hand. Atsumu’s hitched gasp at the contact is a bonus. He pours more lubricant on his hand, slicking the condom up, then he swings one leg over Atsumu’s hip and promptly sits on his dick.

He closes his eyes, fingers squeezing the bedsheets as the feeling of something much thicker than three fingers slides into him. Atsumu lets out a guttural moan as he sinks down inch by inch, his hands flying up to settle on Kiyoomi’s hips. Kiyoomi was right that Atsumu was absolutely packing down there; he had one _fat_ cock, and it was splitting him open deliciously. He breathes deeply as he bottoms out, the burn of the stretch sending red-hot signals of pain up his spine.

Without Kiyoomi’s hand covering his mouth, Atsumu starts babbling, “Oh my god, Omi, I’m so—ya feel so good, yer so hot, I can’t believe this is happenin’, Omi, Omi, please, I’m almost all the way in, oh my god—”

The dark-haired spiker tunes out Atsumu’s mindless words, focused on keeping still until the pain begins to recede. He cants his hips a bit, relishing in the bitten-off noise that Atsumu produces. Then he opens his eyes and starts moving.

“Oh god, _Omi—”_ Atsumu sobs when Kiyoomi lifts himself up and slams back down, searching for the right angle to hit his sweet spot. “Omi, Omi, Omi.”

Kiyoomi grits his teeth as his thighs start to hurt. “Do I have to do all the work around here?” he complains, breaths coming out in short, sharp bursts.

Atsumu suddenly looks feral in the dim light of the room. “Oh, ya want me ta help? Shoulda just said so, love.” He pulls Kiyoomi up by the hips and brings him back down at the same time that he thrusts upwards, stuffing his cock so deeply into the spiker that he nails his prostate in one try. White lights burst behind Kiyoomi’s eyelids and he lets out a cry, his hips stuttering in their movements.

Undeterred, Atsumu continues like this, fucking into Kiyoomi in earnest. Every moan and gasp and whine that he pulls out of Kiyoomi is music to his ears.

Before long, Kiyoomi chokes out, “Atsumu, I’m gonna, gonna come—”

“Shhh, it’s alright, baby, I’ve got ya.” Kiyoomi shivers at the pet name. Atsumu thrusts up one more time, scraping a fingernail across the tip of Kiyoomi’s cock, and then the spiker orgasms with a quiet whimper, his face scrunching up with overwhelming pleasure.

Atsumu sits up so that Kiyoomi can lean against him when he sags, working through the spiker’s climax with a few short thrusts before he also hits his release, little stars flickering behind his eyelids. He flops back on to the bed, bringing Kiyoomi with him so that the dark-haired man is laying on top of him. They lay there in silence, catching their breaths.

Kiyoomi pushes himself up with a grimace. “Ugh, I need another shower. Come on,” he says, prodding Atsumu awake from his light doze. Atsumu’s soft cock slips out of him, leaving him feeling empty.

“Mmph, ‘kay,” the setter groans, willing himself to move. He ties off the condom and throws it in the trash.

They shower together, but both are too tired to do anything more than wash up. And as they change out the sheets for fresh ones, Atsumu asks, “Was it good fer ya, Omi-kun?”

“You’re asking about your performance? It got better once you actually started putting effort in,” Kiyoomi says sleepily, crawling on to the bed once the corners of the new sheets are tucked in. He rolls on his back, arms open. “Now cuddle me.”

“Fer someone who hates bein’ touched, ya sure like me touchin’ ya,” Atsumu remarks, flopping on the bed next to the spiker. Kiyoomi scoots closer and grabs on to him, holding him like a giant teddy bear.

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi mumbles, burying his face against Atsumu’s chest. “‘M tired.”

Atsumu smiles down at him, running his fingers through unruly black curls. “Go to sleep then. I’ll be here in the mornin’, don’t worry.”

“You better be,” the spiker mutters, dozing off.

Atsumu pulls the comforter over both of them, slinging one leg over Kiyoomi’s hip to bring them closer together. He brushes the curls away from Kiyoomi’s face so he can press a kiss to his forehead.

“G'night, Omi,” he whispers, closing his eyes. He follows Kiyoomi into dreamland not a moment later.

**Author's Note:**

> Me @ Kiyoomi: I'm tired too. will edit later
> 
> Please leave a comment before you go~


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